


I Said I'd Never Miss You

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Ghost Patrick, Ghosts, Halloween, M/M, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Spells and Curses, Summoning ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 07:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21249521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: A year or so after the death of a young boy in an apartment, Pete Wentz seeks to cease the haunting in his home. But his original intention may not be as clear as it may seem.Patrick Stump: Ghost, murder victim, just a boy who wants to finally move onPete Wentz: Human, best friend, just a boy who doesn't know how to let goOne night of reuniting. One night to feel alive again. One night to help Patrick cross over to whatever happens next. Can Pete learn to do these things?





	I Said I'd Never Miss You

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is for another round of Trick or Pete! Thank you so much to the people who always put this wonderful collection together. 
> 
> This fic isn't nearly as long as I wish it could have been but, well, life's been busy and I consider it a victory that I got anything done. I'm trying to work on my other stuff, too, as well as some new things I probably shouldn't start but can't seem to stay away from. But enough of all that... on with Halloween!

It must be nearing sunset. Orange sheets of light rest across the pavement as Pete walks alongside the streets, his shadow stretching out like a hand with nothing left to grab— nothing but the leaves crunching beneath his feet, nothing but the crisp answer of wind across his cheeks when he pulls the hood of his jacket down.

It’s almost as if the cold is here to punish him as he takes a sharp turn right, following the lines of the map within his head— directions he memorized weeks ago, walking the route but never going the whole way. Though it’s darker now than it ever was then, there’s something unsettling about this travel. Perhaps it’s the way he knows he won’t stop once the alleyway grows thin; perhaps it’s the Halloween spirit burrowing into his bones like bugs, sucking at the marrow and whispering into the organs hidden deep beneath the skeleton.

Pete rests his hand at his ribcage, letting the tempo of his breaths ease his mind as the alley grows darker, as the sounds of children in costumes fade away.

Out of nothing, the shop appears. As small as the shadows it hides in, it’s a quaint thing. It peeks out from between the two larger buildings, built into space where they should connect. A window rests on either side of the wooden door, eyes watching Pete as he walks ever closer, peering at him like some child up past his bedtime.

In the eyes of some old shop, tucked away and gathering dust in the middle of a city, Pete feels like the young boy he is. He feels the ease in which he moves, the silent passage of breath in and out of his lungs. Dark hair falls into his face and he feels the vibrant shade of youth in the strands, can appreciate the thudding of his pulse against his neck and wrists.

This old building is as quiet as a corpse as he slips inside, the door barely there as he shoves it open. Everything fades to shades of grey, and he turns to take in the shelves of antiquated items. Boxes of vials and devices he can’t yet name decorate the room; the air encircles him with the thickness of the unknown. He longs to drag his fingers across each thing he sees, to feel the age and history sink into his skin. Mark him like the smudged ink on bottles of murky waters; claim him like the shadows hugging the wall.

The shadows, though, urge Pete to move with some semblance of a hurry. The sun is setting soon and there’s no time to stare, to contemplate. He’ll have time for that later. For now, though…

The necklace is simple enough, duller than the rings and jewels displayed with it. The moon and stars hang from the golden chain, though Pete finds the stars appear more as broken hearts when he twists the charm just right. The moon— crying in the corner with the hint of a smile on her face— wrinkles under the light, folding in on itself like an obstacle illusion. Given the chance, Pete could fall into its mystery forever.

For now, though, he simply wraps the chain around his wrist and continues to search, brushing dark bangs out of the way. This necklace may have been the piece he’s been searching for the longest— scouring every book in the library, losing himself in the dark corners of the internet— but that means nothing if he can’t complete the rest of the list.

And the rest, he finds, comes easy. 

Dried flowers that no garden can grow, the pale pink petals like little kisses in the small glass jar, the stem a muted violet shade. A box of matches that seem as ordinary as any other, if not for the tips already burned to an ashy color. 

A final piece of the puzzle— a leatherbound notebook, pages appearing to be black sand as he runs his fingers across them, golden ink staining the first sheet.

_ For my drifter,  _ it reads, words spinning across Pete’s vision as if from another language or world wholly.  _ My wanderer. My ghost. May the fires light your way back home. _

Beneath the final line, the symbol on Pete’s necklace returns. 

The moon, this time, has been replaced with the sun— smiling, the stars mere specks behind it.

Pete grins back, shutting the book and carrying it with him to the counter.

For a mission that’s taken a year or so to complete, Pete finds that all the items fit easily in his hands. It’s almost comical how such precious things can take up such little space.

Still, when the owner of the shop appears— from the door behind the counter or from some other dimension, Pete can’t tell— he passes his items over and casually asks for a bag.

“Of course. Though, I assume you can get away with a few odd objects on Halloween.” The woman— Meredith, going by the beaded necklace around her wrist— says. She’s both out of place and perfectly at home among the witchy items. Dark blue hair— inky, the shade of the sky before it slips into the night— piles at the top of her head, stray strands falling into cool green eyes. She’s silent for a bit longer, looking at what Pete’s passed over. There’s no cash register, no sign of pricing, but she hums to herself and writes something down as if she’s memorized all she needs to know.

“I don’t mean to rush, but—”

Meredith cuts Pete off, her eyes lingering on the necklace on the counter.

“I’ll be sad to see that one go but, I suppose, if it’s leaving, it’s for a reason.” She pauses and looks up, red lips framing each word like the frame around a picture. “Do you believe in ghosts, sir?”

Pete’s not nearly old enough to be referred to as sir but he doesn’t correct her, grinning with a sardonic laugh.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” he says.

She doesn’t seem the type to find humor in such things but Meredith joins in with a brief chuckle, shaking her head and placing Pete’s items in a small black bag. “That’s fair, I guess.”

“So, how much?” Pete asks, reaching for the bag as Meredith rests it back on the counter.

Meredith stops him, a cool hand on his wrist stilling his motions.

“Things in here don’t cost money, sweetheart,” she says. Sharp nails tickle Pete’s skin as she taps his arm, her smile a broken thing. “But the things you’re getting? Well, I think you owe me a ghost story for that.” 

The air chills, just enough for small bumps to raise on Pete’s arm. He pulls his hand back, crosses his arms across his chest.

He pretends his smile sticks.

“What part of the story do you want to know?”

“Well, the simple parts, I guess,” Meredith says, propping her head upon her hand, leaning on the counter with an eyebrow raised. “Are you being haunted or is it just a precaution?”

“Oh,” Pete says, easing his muscles into a gentle shrug that slides across his shoulders like an ocean wave. “A bit of both, I guess. I just got the keys to a new apartment and, well, someone was murdered there not too long ago. It’s not so much that I’m being haunted— I just want to help the spirit escape whatever isolation it’s stuck in. If that makes sense.”

“Sure does,” Meredith says, as simply as if she hears murder stories every day. She inches the bag towards Pete but doesn’t lift her hand off it quite yet. “And which apartment is that? Not too many murders in this city— not as many as there used to be, at least.”

“Just a few blocks down, across from the florist,” Pete says, nodding in the general direction though he lost the sense of where exactly he was when he stepped inside this shop. “It used to be some shoddy cheap rent place but they’ve got a nice restaurant on the ground floor now. It’s a tall building with a big window. I’d say it’s creepy if I didn’t smell pho coming up from the vents all the time.”

“Oh, god,” Meredith says with a soft gasp, standing straight and resting a limp hand over her heart. “Yeah, I heard about that. It wasn’t that long ago, was it? Just about a year back, some poor kid.” 

Pete brushes the bangs from his face, nodding in time with her words. “Yeah, that’s the one. Sad, right?”

“Absolutely,” Meredith says with more passion than anything else she’s shared this evening. She leans forward, hand falling back to the counter as she stares into Pete’s eyes. “You know I saw his picture in the paper? He was just a  _ boy _ , moving out of home for the first time to start some band gig. Makes me sick to think of what happened next. The robbers who broke in while he was alone, the mystery of  _ why _ they killed him— who  _ they  _ even are. Can you imagine how afraid he must have been? And to have his roommates find the body… I don’t doubt that his spirit is agitated.”

“The working theory at the time was that the boy fought back when he shouldn’t have and that the punks who broke in had issues they decided to work out on him,” Pete says, eyes falling to the counter and the little black bag. “They still never did find out who killed him, though.”

“Of course.” Meredith shuts her eyes for a soft second, shaking her head, before opening them again. “Poor thing.”

“Yeah,” Pete agrees. “It’s… morbid.”

There’s another brief second of silence, another heartbeat where only breaths are heard. Pete waits without impatience— waits the way he has for the past year.

“You’re sure it’s him?” Meredith asks, at last. Pete shrugs.

“Right building, right? I’d really hope it doesn’t have any more murders or deaths in its past,” he says, earning a small chuckle from Meredith. “And it can’t be a demon, it’s all too simple for that. Just things moving without explanation, and hearing voices from another room. I’ve seen a few shadows on the wall but, even then, nothing’s ever interacted with me. It’s like it wants attention.”

It’s like it wants  _ Pete’s  _ attention— but he doesn’t say that part out loud.

“It’s good, then, that you’ve taken the time to learn how to help him,” Meredith says. “But remember not to wait too long. Summon the spirit and help him move on. You can talk and wander but if he’s still tethered to the necklace by the time the sun burns the magic from the charm, he will attach to you instead. And, then, you’ll really be haunted.”

“I know,” Pete says quickly, shivering at the thought of a ghost linking to his very soul. “I know what I need to do. I’ve been studying for a while to make sure I get it just right.”

Meredith grins and it gleams like a knife’s edge. “I can tell. You seem rather confident.”

“I’ll come back and let you—”

“No,” Meredith says, shoving the bag towards him as her smile slips. “Forget this place and the places like it. Take your items and, if you don’t return, I’ll know you have succeeded. For only the failures require more than they first take.”

Back to something hidden; back to something dark.

Pete finds his voice lost in his throat and he doesn’t dare dislodge it.

The bag of charms and luck fits neatly in his hand. 

And he leaves the old shop feeling new.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The apartment. The room.

It’s as dark as Pete left it this morning.

“Honey, I’m home,” he sing-songs, setting his bag down by the door. His fingers rest upon the light switch and he toys with the idea of flickering the lights on. Eventually, though, he decides to leave it off. The curtains across the way are open and the sun hasn’t fully set yet.

He leaves the bag where it is. The shadow of it stretches up the wall like a sundial counting the hours.

Pete shakes his head with a little laugh. Hours and days and years splash through his mind— drops of rain and other shattered things. The taste of dried chapstick presses to the tip of his tongue when he breathes in; the chill of mint gum and ice tickles his skin.

When Pete leaves the front room to start coffee in the kitchen, it’s to ease these sensations away with something warm. With something he can actually feel. He uses the one mug left that hasn’t cracked, the rest decorated with small crevices and constellations of broken lines. Pete ignores the way the cabinet slams shut after taking his mug out, the others no doubt breaking further.

Behind him, the curtain shifts. As he walks back to the black bag, the creak of footsteps follows him.

Pete pays the actions no mind.

The sun sets slowly, and Pete takes his time setting up the ritual he’s read so much about. He sits on the carpeted floor, in the light of a sun that’s sinking further toward the horizon with each strumbled breath he takes. His mug of coffee rests beside him, the steam curling in unnatural ways, like someone’s continuing to blow on it— like someone’s stirring their fingers through the air above it.

Pete moves the cup further away if only to make room for the items he has now. 

The glass jar opens first, faint blushing flowers shifting as he drops the golden moon necklace inside, the chain coiling like a snake amongst the stems and thorns. He’s tempted to shake the bottle, to watch the petals fall and count the ways a lover loves. He wants to see if the thorns of one flower will pierce the flesh of another; he wants to know if flowers bleed.

But he doesn’t find out. He plays the part the way the books and masters said, setting the jar down and lighting one of those ashen matches in the box beside him. The flame flickers but it doesn’t grow. It doesn’t roar the way a fire should.

“Blow it out,” Pete says, unperturbed by the small blue flame. He holds the match out, watching the fire cling to it for life. “Come on. Blow it out.”

The flame flinches. The fire recoils. Like with the steam above the coffee cup, something unnatural shifts into Pete’s world.

The match goes out, a birthday candle without a cake. And, then, it’s lit again. The flame burns brighter than before.

Pete drops the match into the jar next, flame and all. With a frenzy not unlike the persistent thudding of Pete’s heart, it falls upon the flowers and the thorns. Seething red fingerprints stick to the sides of the walls, threatening to crack the glass. 

Pete closes the lid. Though the air in the jar distinctly disappears, the fire only grows.

It’s not until the necklace is out of sight, consumed by orange waves, that Pete turns to the final piece— the notebook. He takes his time as he opens the empty black pages, a chill pressing to his back and hooking over his shoulder as he searches for the right page to use. Something far from the end, a place that might be the beginning but could also be the middle if he shifts the book just right.

By the time he’s found a page he likes, the fire has gone out. Only ash remains.

It’s simple work now, and Pete hums a delicate tune as he opens the jar, using his knees to keep the notebook open. He pours the ashes into the book, wrinkling his nose as some of the debris flies towards his face. There’s a sound from in front of him, a sound like coughing. Pete turns the jar over entirely, making sure to loosen every dusty piece left behind.

When all the ash has reached the page, Pete pauses. He takes a breath and looks out the window.

The sun has nearly set.

His hands move as if he’s practiced this and, he supposes, he has. He’s thought of this moment, the way the ash feels like sand as he spreads it across the page. It’s fine, as cool as summer, and his heart becomes a loosened knot.

Finally, finally, there’s dark dust on his palms and shaking in his fingers. He waits once more, and, then, he writes in the dust.

_ P _

That’s all. One letter. One symbol that he whispers to himself as he traces the shape out. 

_ P _

The same letter he’s seen scratched into the bedroom door, the letter torn out of newspapers when he checks them upon returning home. The same letter he feels on his lips when he wakes in the morning; the same sound he hears whispered as he falls asleep at night.

_ P _

He traces it three times, eyes unblinking and hands suddenly steady. On the third trace, something metallic greets his fingertip in the same shape he’d been making.

The necklace from before, back from the ashes— resurrected, so to speak. Pete’s breath only hitches once as he pulls it free; the golden shade has become silver. It’s light around his neck and, once it’s settled, he turns back to the ash.

He leans towards it. He holds his breath.

Then-- he blows.

Shadowed dust with the hint of something light— something as sharp as stars, and twice as luminescent— crashes into the air before him. It’s an exploding star, a collapsing star, a galaxy expanding and folding in on itself all at once.

And it collects around one shape. 

A hand stretching out into the ash becomes an arm. An arm reaches into a shoulder and a torso. The ash collects and it builds and, eventually, it breathes.

The darkness becomes brighter, becomes something solid. It gasps and the color fades into a paler shade, into a color more like blushing petals. The ash becomes something that isn’t ash, at all.

And, then, storm blue eyes open and look at Pete.

Pete’s planned words dry upon his tongue. His heart begs to fail.

The arm that had been ash falls to the side, faded but for the yellowing bruises and the angry slashes. Fingers toy with each other, not caring for the cuts along the palms and knuckles, the signs of a fight that had not been won. Blood drips from beneath fingernails; blood peels free from red-stained lips. And that red extends down the neck and to the torso, to a seething place where a heart should be. The wound pulses from beneath a tattered band t-shirt, giving the illusion of something still beating. Worse still, are the darkened scrapes across the cheeks, a tender smile tugging at cuts that have never healed.

Pete doesn’t breathe. It feels wrong to do so.

“It’s you,” he says, using the last of his breath on a whisper.

Maybe lightning flashes. Maybe he merely blinks.

The cuts and bruises are gone. The boy before him smiles.

“Took you long enough, Pete.”

A broken bone fitting back in place. A stitch closer to closing a wound.

Pete smiles back, air filling his lungs for what feels to be the first time in years. 

“You think I wanted it to take this long?” He asks, fighting back the choking sensation in his throat. “Fuck, I’ve  _ missed  _ you, Trick.”

Patrick would probably blush if he could, if his skin could manage more than the spectral and fatal pallor it’s stuck on now. He ducks his head, the breath in his laughter sounding better than any song Pete’s ever heard.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he says softly. He brushes his finger through the leftover ash, drawing shapes he might have seen when he was in that place between here and there. “I can shove over all the mugs I’d like, but it’s not the same as actually looking at you and knowing that you know I’m here.”

“Hey, I knew. I always knew,” Pete says in a voice just as gentle as Patrick’s, almost afraid that a word too harsh will blow Patrick away into small dusty bits. “But, I mean, if you could touch mugs and the doors, then— I mean, I was just wondering, does that mean that I could… that you… maybe—”

Patrick’s smile breaks across his face. “Fucking hug me, Wentz.”

And Pete does.

Patrick’s not as warm as he was before but he’s solid and he’s there. He’s the same in every other way, as a firm force of nature that wraps Pete into his arms and holds him as if he doesn’t plan to let go. Pete sinks into him, falling against him and knocking over the flower jar as he laughs and breathes in the mint-gum smell of Patrick’s skin. He’s glad he doesn’t smell like blood. He’s glad he doesn’t smell like death. The time— the grave— hasn’t changed him. Pete tightens his hold, burying his face in Patrick’s neck. Once, he might have been worried about the bruises such an embrace could leave. Now, he only fears the idea that Patrick won’t be there once he lets go.

When Pete finally pulls back, his hands are shaking in a way they haven’t since they placed Patrick’s body in the ground, a moment when all self-control and self-respect threw themselves aside so he could fall apart. It had been that moment, that slate with Patrick’s name rising from the ground, that broke him. Not when the hospital told him they did all they could but. Not when he sat in the ambulance, holding a hand too cold and looking at eyes too dull. Not when blood sank into the knees of his jeans, a stain still hidden in the back of his dresser.

Not when he opened the apartment door and saw Patrick in a way he’d never hoped to see anyone before.

“I’m sorry,” Pete says before he’s aware he’s speaking. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Patrick shakes his head and pulls back entirely, the smile never leaving his lips.

“It was never your fault,” he says, taking Pete’s hand in his. “And, besides, you’ve stayed. I’ve watched you stay in this apartment, despite the bad memories you must have. Everyone else left, moved on, but you stayed.”

“I couldn’t do anything else,” Pete says, tightening his hold on Patrick’s hand only to feel the shape again, only to feel the familiar squeeze back even if the feeling breaks him apart. “You made it obvious you were still here. I’d never want to leave you alone.”

Patrick laughs. Patrick breathes.

“I would have gone crazy if you had,” he admits. “I can’t leave this place since it’s where… it’s where it happened. Having you here made the prison worth it.”

It takes Pete a moment to speak, a moment to remember the way he used to talk to Patrick before he was talking to shadows and shapes.

“I’m glad that slowly driving myself crazy had a purpose.” He tries to joke but Patrick’s smile only barely catches the teasing tone. Pete clears his throat; he pretends there’s not a knot stuck inside it. “Would you like to finally go back outside?”

Patrick’s head snaps up. When he shifts, Pete can almost see the scars and blood beneath the facade he’s put on. “I can’t, though. Can I?”

He’s unsure— it’s adorable.

Pete pulls on the chain around his neck, twisting his fingers until he’s holding the moon charm in his hand. It’s warm but he’s not so certain it’s from his body heat alone.

“Tonight isn’t about me seeing you again. I’ve taken your permanence here and shifted it into the charm. Wherever the necklace goes, you go, too,” he says, skin burning as Patrick leans closer and takes the charm from him, his hand inches away from Pete’s collarbone. His breath ghosts over Pete’s body. “I once promised you that the world would be ours. Did you think I’d let something as silly as… as  _ this  _ stop me?”

By the time Pete’s done speaking, Patrick’s closer than before, his eyelashes fluttering like golden strands of spiderweb. Is he still able to cry, Pete wonders? Or is the shine in his eyes a product of the belief that seeing Patrick is the same as seeing him alive?

There is no time for dismal questions. There’s no time to linger on the pain Pete feels when Patrick turns his head and the shadows fall over like a bruise on his cheek.

“It’s Halloween. Of course, you did this on Halloween.” He stands slowly, as if his bones are hollow and he’s afraid they may break. And, like a thing with hollow bones, he turns to face the window. He opens his arms and lets the moonlight hold him. 

He’s every ethereal thing Pete’s known he could be.

“Where do you want to go?” Pete asks. 

Patrick turns his head over his shoulder, looking impossibly young as his arms fall back to his sides. 

“You’re the one with the necklace, right?” He asks. “Don’t I have to follow you?”

Pete shakes his head and turns away, Patrick following him as he goes to the front door.

“I told you that tonight isn’t about me,” he says, opening the door and looking back at Patrick’s stunned face. “You lead the way. I’ll follow you.”

Patrick hesitates and Pete only notices because he knows Patrick. And, because he knows Patrick, his skin lights on fire when Patrick smiles a smile Pete’s never seen before.

Childish laughter fills the air, and Patrick runs past Pete into the hallway outside. Even when Pete laughs back and calls for him to wait up, Patrick doesn’t slow. His footsteps echo but in a way more real than Pete’s heard in a while. In all the excitement, Pete nearly forgets to lock the door.

But then the apartment is shut, caught behind them. And Pete’s running after Patrick— just like he knows he was always meant to do.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Pete runs down the sidewalks and streets after Patrick, not catching up with him until they’ve reached a park near the center of the city, a place with lights like diamonds and smiles like gold. The remnants of an afternoon rain collect on the grass and trees, painting the October evening as a wet warm night of Spring. Children in costumes run around, waving glow-in-the-dark toys bought from vendors scattered around the park in little white army tents. Their toys should be soft and gentle but the light soaks into the row of street lamps; the street lamps, in return, soak into the puddles below them.

Patrick, simply by being Patrick, leads Pete into another world.

When Patrick pauses on the edge of the Halloween event, Pete takes time to stare. He doesn’t care about how stupid he must look, grinning foolishly at what everyone else sees as nothing; he’s always seen Patrick when the rest of the world refused to.

“They’re all so precious,” Patrick says, and Pete has never heard him use that tone before. “So full of life and fun and… I miss that. I miss not knowing how bad things can be.”

Though the words hang heavy beside the other unspoken things they’ve left between them, it’s Patrick’s despairing tone that has Pete reaching out to take his hand.

“It’s a holiday,” Pete says, stepping from the sidewalk and onto rain-heavy grass. “We can’t go back but we can pretend it’s possible to forget.”

A child with demon horns runs past them. Another with old black and white jail stripes walks through Patrick.

Patrick smiles back at Pete and takes a step forward. For a moment, he’s a pale shadow amongst the night and city lights. He’s nothing but a shape.

Then he pinches Pete’s side and takes off running again, his laughter pulling Pete forward like a chain around both their hearts. Despite the angered looks from mothers and fathers, Pete continues to run after Patrick, forgetting the rest of the world in the process.

As horror movie music plays— as children jump out at each other, and as kids with painted faces run through Patrick’s flickering form— Pete takes Patrick’s wrist and grins. Together, he knows they’re thinking of the fun of hiding a ghost in a crowd on Halloween night.

“No one can tell I’m here,” Patrick says, looking at a young boy with a sheet draped over his face— a classic ghost costume. “It’s kinda trippy.”

There’s a ridiculous tone of regret in his voice. Pete doesn’t have time to think of all the things they should have said or done— he forces himself to smile, instead.

“Think of all the pranks you can pull,” he says. It’s a weak attempt at a joke but, at least, Patrick’s punch at his arm is a fond one.

“Of course you’d think of pranks and shit like that,” he says. He takes a step forward but then pauses, turning back to Pete. “Do you think I can, like, levitate?”

“Levitate?” Pete repeats. Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, like, float,” he says. “Like ghosts are supposed to do.”

Ghosts are supposed to do plenty of things— haunt, possess, terrorize. Pete takes Patrick’s wrist in his hand.

“You can certainly try,” he says. 

Patrick watches Pete for a moment, his eyes saying something Pete can’t hear. Before Pete can lean in— before he can ask for an explanation— Patrick’s turned away. 

“Maybe later,” he says. “There’s still so much more we can do.”

Pete doesn’t speak, following Patrick as he wanders— not runs— through the crowd. He walks until they’ve reached the edge of the park, until they’ve reached the collection of pumpkins no one’s bought. It’s darker here, the owner of the pumpkins lost in the celebrations further down, and Pete sits among the dim orange bulbs. No one here to see him speak freely with Patrick; no lights to show Patrick how close Pete is to falling apart.

“It’s nice weather,” Pete says, absentmindedly stroking one of the larger pumpkins beside him. He feels like a child, like someone waiting to be taught. He looks over at where Patrick’s doing the same. “Can you feel the weather?”

“Not really,” Patrick says, almost ashamed. “At least, I don’t think so? I mostly feel warm, like I’m always sitting in the sun.”

Pete laughs but it sounds more like a shaky sigh. “That must be nice.”

He doesn’t realize what he’s said until it's said.

Patrick doesn’t call him on it, though his eyes are sad when he looks at Pete.

“There are some advantages, I guess,” he says, pulling his hands into his lap. “But the only thing that matters to me now is that I’m out of that apartment and that I’m here with you.”

This is all they do— sit and talk around the things that hurt too much to say. Pete laments the loss of Patrick’s blush, and Patrick continues to try to float. When the children in the park start to disperse back into cars, masks tugged off and make-up half-wiped away, Pete and Patrick make their way to a bench in the place between the park and a nearby neighborhood. It’s damp, positioned beneath the cool shade of one of the few trees left growing.

Though they can’t see it, Pete knows it faces the apartment.

Pete tugs at the chain around his neck, watching Patrick watch the action.

“I appreciate what you did,” Patrick says, at last. “It must have been hard to keep living there.”

“It was,” Pete says. Patrick winces but Pete places a hand on his arm before he can entirely pull away. “It was hard but I knew you were there. I just needed to figure out how to see you.”

Patrick shines, his smile the most brilliant thing Pete’s seen tonight.

“I never doubted that you’d be able to do it. I mean, it took forever— if you could hear me, you’d have heard the yelling I did— but it was worth it. It was worth it to feel alive again.” A pause. A shaky breath— Pete wonders whether Patrick really needs to breathe but he’s cut off before he can ask. “I need something else, though. I need your help to move on.”

“Move on?” Pete asks, the vague memory of cryptic words repeating through his mind.

Patrick nods, eyes falling. “The men who did this— they were never caught. The crime was never solved and, so, my spirit can’t really rest. If I want a chance at moving past this limbo phase then I need the truth of what happened to be revealed. It’s the only way.”

Pete doesn’t miss the way Patrick’s voice catches before simply implying his own death, the way his eyes almost fall from Pete’s only to pull back up at the last second. 

“What can I—” Pete stops, clears his throat and tries again. “What would I need to do to free you?”

It sounds so formal, so stilted, but it’s the only way he can look at Patrick without some terrible pit filling his gut.

Patrick doesn’t answer right away, face drawn away from Pete and towards the sky. With his eyes on the moon, he seems to have stars reflected in his eyes.

“We don’t have to do it now. I just wanted you to know about it,” he says. “When the night’s over, I’ll give you their names. I’ll tell you where they hid their weapons, and how you can find the evidence the courts will need to convict them.”

“Won’t they think it’s strange that I’m coming to them after so long?” Pete asks. “I was the first one to— Well. I was the main suspect for a while. It’ll sound like I’m changing my story.”

“Then send in an anonymous tip, I don’t care.” There’s the briefest flare behind Patrick’s voice, the shortest threat of a fuse beneath his words. Pete tenses but then the fire is gone. “Sorry, I just, I want to move on, Pete. I don’t want to be stuck here anymore.”

“I understand. As well as I can, anyway.” Perhaps Pete can dip into metaphors and emotions, can pretend he’s been as trapped as Patrick’s been, lost without his best friend. He could wax poetic, promise more lyrical words— but it wouldn’t really be the same thing, at all. “Let’s just focus on the night for now. You won’t have to worry about being chained once the sun comes up.”

Patrick’s shoulders sink just a bit, just enough for Pete’s heart to twist.

He runs from the feeling in the way he did long before he found Patrick bleeding out on their apartment floor— he takes Patrick’s hand and pulls him close.

“Kids are almost done trick-or-treating,” he says. “Let’s see how many houses give the poor young adults some chocolate.”

“No one else can see me,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes in that fond way he always does. “And I don’t think I can taste chocolate, anyway.”

“We have time to figure out how to feed you candy,” Pete says, tugging Patrick to his feet with tight energy building so strongly in his chest that he fears he may burst. “And don’t worry about being invisible to anyone else. I’m the only one who needs to see you.”

Pete envies the way Patrick’s eyes sparkle, the way his lips shift into that tender grin; he always knows how to ease the tremors in Pete’s joy. When Pete tugs more harshly on Patrick’s hand, it’s because he wants to bring the same comfort to Patrick’s wary voice.

“Then I’m happy enough to just sit here with you,” Patrick says. 

Pete lets go of Patrick’s hand.

“What? Really?” He asks, cheeks burning when Patrick bites his lip and ducks his head. “It’s Halloween, your first night back, and you want to spend it on a bench?”

Patrick looks back up at him through his eyelashes. “Isn’t that what I just said?”

Pete pauses, the air let out of him as he sinks back down to the bench at Patrick’s side.

“What happened while you were gone?” He asks, reaching for Patrick’s hand and holding it in a softer grip this time. “You’ve never— When you were around, you were never that eager for my time.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I knew it was a limited thing.” When Patrick squeezes his hand like that, it’s like he’s that kid on the doorstep with a scowl that never really reached his eyes. When he looks at Pete like that, it’s like he’s the boy Pete’s heart fell for— a fall he never recovered from entirely. “I was gone and you were there and I had so much I wanted to say. I’ve always had so much to say, it just seemed like you already had the words.”

“I’m sorry,” Pete says, maybe a bit too fast. “I never meant to—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Patrick says, waiting to catch Pete’s eyes before continuing. “You know, I watched you in that apartment. I guess I was already gone even before my body gave up. So I saw everything. I saw you find me. And I was next to you screaming as you called for help, as you did your best to stop something that couldn’t be stopped. And then help came and they took me and you ran out after them and I was stuck in that place. I was stuck and the last thing I saw was you.”

Pete’s body fills with a strange mix of hot and cold, of chills and flashes of warmth in his blood. He barely remembers to breathe. He barely sees anything other than Patrick’s eyes.

When Pete looks down, he feels something in him escape and attach to Patrick.

“I never should have left you alone,” he says, his voice uneven and low. “I knew you were sick and I knew you were frustrated and I was… I was willing to ignore that in order to go to some party thrown by some guy I can’t remember.” Pete’s eyes sting; his words feel too big for his mouth. “You shouldn’t have had to be by yourself when those assholes broke in.”

Across the street, the houses’ lights switch off one by one. 

The time for trick-or-treating is over. In rows and lines and scattered clumps, the children and their families begin their walks home.

Pete stares into the dark and thinks of the times when he’d do this at the apartment— when he’d look at nothing and wonder if, really, he was looking at Patrick.

“I could have hidden better,” Patrick says, his shaking voice belying the note of brokenness beneath it all. “Or I could have done better than weakly hit one of them with one of our brooms. I could have pretended that I was asleep and didn’t see them. Or I could have just told them where we hid the money, instead of trying to keep our first gig savings safe.” Patrick sighs. He looks at Pete. “It’s useless thinking of all the things that might have gone differently, though. Trust me.”

Opposite them, someone pulls the curtains to a decorated house shut. Someone opens their front door, letting the young costumed ones hide away inside. For a moment, Pete hears laughter.

“I’ve always trusted you.” Pete’s words are mere breaths, things that are perhaps meant only for him. He turns, then, to Patrick, and watches how the light colors his colorless face. “Do you trust me?”

Patrick’s eyebrows knit together. “Of course.”

“Then—” Dry mouth, thick tongue. Pete lifts his hand from Patrick’s. “Can you show me the way you were before? The way you appeared before hiding it away. I want to understand.”

Patrick’s frown deepens. “If this is just some way to hurt yourself, Pete, then—”

“No, it’s not. I promise,” Pete presses, leaning towards Patrick. “The last time I really saw you with injuries, your eyes were shut and you couldn’t move. I want to see it now when I know that you’re okay.”

Patrick’s frown softens into a disturbing smile, his hand caressing Pete’s cheek. Like a pet on a leash, Pete leans into it.

“Okay’s a funny thing to call this,” Patrick says in a voice that’s almost a whisper. “But you brought me back for just one night. Of course I can give you this.”

This time, it doesn’t happen with lightning strikes or flames. It’s simply Patrick’s hand falling from Pete’s face; in the time it takes for Pete to look up from his fingers, the bruises and scars are back.

Pete’s heart jumps at the sight of the blood, the cuts down Patrick’s cheeks and the scrapes across his skin. Though he’d seen it before— on the corpse, and in the split-second before a ghost became Patrick— this time is different than the others. Now, the blood runs but it’s Patrick’s blood that’s staining Pete’s hand when he places his palm gently over a steady stream flowing from a cut on his cheek. He holds his breath again, his eyes caught on Patrick’s; and Patrick’s eyes are blue-yellow bruises to match the rest, heavy and haunted and still so him.

“I didn’t want to show you because I was afraid I’d scare you away.” Patrick stumbles over his words, biting his bruised lips and causing blood to stick to his teeth. “Am I scaring you away now?”

What a ridiculous thing to say.

“Do you think you ever could?” Pete asks.

“I think I’ve tried, in the past. And I’m done pretending that I ever wanted to push you away,” Patrick says. Beneath the shadows crossing the moon in the form of shapeless clouds, Patrick almost seems to blush, turning his face from Pete. Pete reaches to pull him closer but stops when Patrick’s hand reaches his wrist first, holding him in place; Pete pauses, watching as Patrick watches him— as if Patrick could ever have reason to believe Pete doesn’t feel the exact same way. 

As if Pete hasn’t always felt the exact same way.

He leans in slowly, giving Patrick time to back away, but then lets his lips land on the side of Patrick’s face, trailing down an angered red cut across his jaw. Patrick relaxes, twisting until Pete’s kiss shifts from the corner of his mouth and to the fullness of Patrick’s lips.

Suddenly, the world begins to spin again.

Their hands find each other’s, creating tangled messes but messes Pete knows are meant to be theirs. He pulls Patrick closer; he holds him tighter.

Patrick murmurs a phrase it’s too soon to say; a phrase Pete knows it’s too late to say.

Pete pulls back, blinking back tears but with a smile on his face. 

“I still think I should have been there that night,” he whispers.

“It doesn’t matter,” Patrick says, the words as easy as the kiss they shared. “You’re here now.”

Patrick leans into Pete. Pete takes him into his arms.

When Pete shuts his eyes and listens only to the wind, he can pretend he feels Patrick’s heart beating.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

It’s clear that Patrick doesn’t want to return to the apartment but the sun is threatening to rise and Pete’s grown cold from spending the night outside. Pete might feel bad for dragging Patrick back but he has Patrick’s hand in his, he has the pressure of Patrick’s lips stuck to his own; he can’t find a thing to regret.

“Do you ever miss doing stupid shit like this?” Patrick asks as they walk back, kicking at candy wrappers littering the pavement. “Just taking the good things and tossing out what you don’t want?”

“A bit deep for a thought about candy wrappers,” Pete says, ignoring Patrick’s heavy-hearted sigh. 

“You know what I mean,” he says.

Pete’s smile is sharp. “I guess I do. But that’s only because I already have a good thing in the shape of you.”

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, incapable of hiding his grin. “And what did you have to toss out in order to get to this?”

There are answers Pete can give, responses Patrick might not want to hear.

Pete nearly lets go of Patrick’s hand. In the process, though, some other part of his mind pulls him closer.

“I walked into a spooky store and bought some spooky stuff.” As morning nears, the necklace feels heavier than before. “I think I tossed out any opportunity for anyone to ever doubt my bravery again.”

“Or your persistence and loyalty,” Patrick says as they reach the apartment. He stops in front of him, turning to look fully at Pete. “You didn’t have to do any of this. I don’t think you’ll ever know how much it means to me.”

“Well,” Pete says, bringing a hand to the back of Patrick’s neck as the other brushes over broken knuckles. “It wasn’t entirely selfless.”

“Oh, I noticed. And I don’t think I really care,” Patrick says, a smile crinkling his features.

In the dark of dawn, Pete leans forward and presses his lips to Patrick’s. There’s a breathless moment where Patrick freezes against him, where the entire world seems to pause and watch the way Pete holds him with no intention of letting go. But then Patrick’s hands tighten on Pete’s arms and he’s smiling again.

Patrick’s breaths are warm on Pete’s mouth when he pulls back, snickering to himself. 

“We should go inside before people catch you kissing air.” 

Despite his words, he goes in for another kiss, pressing forward until Pete has his back against the door, Patrick’s shirt fisted in his hand. He shuts his eyes and imagines what others would see if they walked by; like Patrick, he begins to laugh.

“There’s time for this later,” he says. “You’re right. We should go back in.”

Patrick scowls at the mention of returning to the place that has been his prison and the warmth in Pete’s chest grows. He follows Patrick back inside, his fingertips finding the charm hanging near his throat.

Once in the apartment, Pete opens his mouth to ask what Patrick wants to do next.

Patrick, though, has already crossed the room to the window; he’s already opened the curtains and seen the way the sun’s beginning to peek over the edge of the horizon.

There’s silence because there’s nothing more for Pete to say. No spell can make Patrick turn around. No ritual can stop what Patrick’s thinking now.

“Teddy. His name was Teddy."

Pete holds his breath. Patrick continues to speak.

"It’s a stupid name and I hate that someone with a name like  _ that  _ did this but… that’s the name you need to give.” Monotone with just a pinch of bitterness, just a dash of something like tears. “He has a job cleaning the barbershop next to the park we were at. I was afraid I’d see him, but I didn’t.”

In a different life, Pete would be able to nod and memorize each word Patrick says. In a different time, he’d be swearing vengeance and revenge.

In a different world, this wouldn’t have happened.

“When they were leaving, he said he’d keep the evidence under a floorboard beneath one of the chairs at the shop,” Patrick continues. “His boss knows that he’s a thief but not that he can kill. Have him help. If Teddy falls, the rest of his group will come down, too.” 

When Patrick turns, Pete receives the answer to a question he hadn’t really wanted to ask— Yes, Patrick can cry.

“Are you sure?” Pete asks, his voice suddenly as empty as Patrick’s had been.

“I’ve been sure for a while,” Patrick says, smiling through his tears. They run through cuts and scrapes, bleeding down his face. “And I’m terrified of what happens next but I know that it’s going to be better than this. Just know that I’ll miss you so much— wherever I go, I’ll miss you.”

The last time Patrick stood in this room like this— before this window, dressed in wounds and a past that belongs in a grave— Pete had been seeing him for the first time in years.

That was simply hours ago. That was hardly enough time to make up for the entire future the universe had promised them.

“I don’t want you to go,” Pete whispers, the words cracking and shredding his throat. 

Patrick chokes around a sob. “I don’t, either. But I have to. I can’t stay trapped here— I need you to help me, Pete.”

_ I need you to help me _

Pete blinks— slowly, surely.

Patrick’s still there.

_ I need you _

Pete nods, his limbs heavy and his heart burning like the flame he set the night before.

“I understand,” he says. “I’m only sorry it’s taken me so long to see it.”

Patrick lets Pete take his hands. He lets Pete pull him into his arms, Pete staring out the window as Patrick sobs into his shoulder.

“You need me,” Pete echoes, his embrace tightening. 

“I always have,” Patrick says. “You have to have seen that.”

“Of course I have,” Pete says, freeing one of his hands to pull the chain from his neck.

“Pete? What?” Patrick pulls back at the action, watching as Pete swings the charm between them.

“I know you need me, Patrick,” Pete says, suddenly stopping the swinging motion. “So, certainly, you must know that I need you, too.”

When Pete throws the necklace, it all seems to happen in slow motion. Patrick’s eyes widen and he pales further, turning and failing to catch the charm as it sails through the air— as it hits the glass of the window with a sound like rain, as it falls to the floor with no grace or poise.

As it rests in the sun, the light burning away the enchantment Pete had cast. 

A warmth, pleasurable and all-encompassing, stretches over Pete’s skin at the same time, an unseen light sinking into him as Patrick gasps.

“What are you doing?” He asks, unmoving. “What have… What have you done?”

“We need each other,” Pete says, as simple as that. He looks up; he doesn’t understand what that look in Patrick’s eyes means. “We need more time.”

“No, I need to move on.” Patrick’s breathless, backing away. “I need… I need you to call the police, now. I need you to break the spell you cast and—”

“I did,” Pete says. “You’re not connected to the necklace anymore.”

At this, some of Patrick’s tightness eases— some, though not all. “Then why am I still here? Why can you still see me? If I’m not being summoned anymore, then—”

“Because you’re not attached to the charm,” Pete says, taking his time with each word. “You’re attached to me.”

It’s intended to relieve Patrick, to offer him a paradise greater than the one he seeks. 

Patrick, however, goes still again.

“I don’t understand.”

“I know. It’s strange but don’t worry,” Pete says. “We don’t have to miss each other, anymore.”

Pete reaches out for Patrick, to feel him in his arms and know, this time, that there’s no limit on how long he can hold on. Already, his palms ache for the press of Patrick’s hair; his lips burn for Patrick’s touch. Before him, his hands shake from what he’s done. 

Patrick jerks back as if Pete’s threatened to strike him. As if the one movement has broken a spell, Patrick’s frozen expression melts into one of anger and fear.

“You can’t do this to me,” he says. “You can’t trap me here again!”

“I’m not trapping you,” Pete says. “You follow me. And I can go wherever.”

Why does Patrick look at him as if Pete’s somehow left the room? Why does he flinch towards the window, his eyes more full of fire and life than they’d ever been before?

When Pete steps forward, Patrick ducks down, lifting the necklace and holding it to his chest.

“I saw how you did the ritual before. I’ll do it myself this time,” he says. “Either you let me go, or I detach myself from you.”

“And do what?” Pete asks. “Stick in this apartment for the rest of time?”

Patrick glares, his bruises like shadows stretching over his skin. “You wouldn’t—”

“I don’t want to miss you anymore, Patrick. And, this way, I don’t have to.” Pete smiles; he walks forward and gently takes the necklace from Patrick’s hand. “I’m the only one who can see you. I’m the only one who knows you’re here. If you leave me, you’re stuck here again, with no way to move on. And then I’ll never tell the police who your murderer was.”

“Pete,  _ please _ —”

“I’ll let you go one day, I promise,” Pete says, peering curiously at the tears collecting along Patrick’s lower lashes. “Come on, don’t be like that. I gave you a whole night of freedom, after all.”

“I’ll fucking kill you for this,” Patrick snarls. He doesn’t mean it— he never means it.

Pete laughs like it’s a joke, like Patrick’s being endearing.

“But then no one would be around to say who murdered me,” he says. “And then we’d both truly be stuck in this apartment forever. Is that what you want?”

Patrick doesn’t answer. He looks down, his hands in fists. Pete imagines that, if it were possible, Patrick’s cheeks would be a violent shade of red.

Finally, slowly, Patrick reaches out. 

He takes Pete’s hand. It feels like he’s defeated; he looks like he’s giving up.

Still, Pete smiles.

He’ll never have to miss Patrick again.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! I really hope you enjoyed this. Like I said, I would have made it a bit longer but, looking back, I suppose this still works? Let me know what you think!


End file.
